


The voice of Nirvana says, "come as you are."

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Captain America Corps, Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Bittersweet, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Relationship of Convenience, The Fantastic Four Are No More
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29013105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: In the United States of Americommand, friend-of-a-friendship is the closest you can get, sometimes. In the wake of disbandment, death, disappearance, and the forged fist of nationalism, sometimes that's all you need.Sometimes things don't go right, sometimes people stay dead, and sometimes you have to move on.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wyatt Wingfoot





	The voice of Nirvana says, "come as you are."

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by/set in the universe of Captain America Corps, a 5-issue mini series from 2011 involving time travel and interdimensional fuckery which I would describe as "on-the-nose" if it weren't essentially a prediction of 2020 in a nutshell. As a comic, it's overall decent (at least, I enjoyed most of it) despite stepping over its own message in the back half, but you hopefully shouldn't need to have read it to understand this fic. (Though it may offer some useful context.)
> 
> It is mostly about various Captains America, but Peter and Wyatt play a minor role in a couple of the issues, and I just thought I'd have some fun with that.

"Hey."

Wyatt didn't bother to open his eyes or move from where he lay in the old lumpy sleeping bag atop the crumbling foam pad he called a bed. (Hey, it had a frame. Kind of. Handmade; cobbled together from rope netting and wood scrap, humble trash made into something functional.)

Nonetheless, Peter had grabbed his attention, and his ears focused in on the slight creak of the hammock he knew hung not-quite-above his head.

"You ever think… you know. About this. Why I'm here, next to you, and not somewhere else? I don't know. Is this convenient? That's all it is. Is that all this is? I don't know." Peter paused to take a breath. "I wonder sometimes, about you and me and Johnny and everything else. That's all. I used to have friends, you know? Not just comrades."

It was one of those nights.

Wyatt sighed. "It's a rare night I _don't_ assume I'm only a convenient replacement for someone else, but I doubt I make a good substitute for a five-foot-nine supermodel."

" _Ouch_."

It was true, though.

Wyatt was just the next person in line. The backup soulmate, rebound dance partner, willing participant. Too big to ignore, too withdrawn to ask for more.

He was easily seduced by charming smiles, strong arms, and cheesy pickup lines.

Only the slightest rustle warned him before the warmth of Peter's body appeared at his side—the man was silent even when he tried _not_ to be—a creeping creature in the night, now half-leaning over Wyatt so he could feel his breath. Smell the tinge of sweat and garlic and blood.

"Hey."

Wyatt opened his eyes.

Peter stared down at him, their noses a scant hairsbreadth from touching. Brown hair black in the darkness, eyes the same, silhouetted with only the edge of the moonlight picking an outline around him. His hands were braced on either side of Wyatt, and something in his posture was almost that of an animal. Wild, poised, coiled full of tension that only now slowly eased out as Peter bridged the nonexistent gap between them.

Stubble. Skin. The taste of pennies.

The hand that reached up to tangle in Wyatt's hair was welcome, as was the slight sting in his scalp as superhuman fingers tightened.

Controlling.

He let Peter take the lead, as he did in most things. (The things that didn't matter, at least. That weren't important.) Lay with his arms crossed behind his head, casual and open as he made space for Peter to settle against him. A body waiting and pliant, like a lake under the sky. Placid, reflecting the stars, the sunrise.

"You—" Peter's lips slid along Wyatt's and he mumbled against the corner of his mouth. "You remind me of him."

Wyatt knew this.

Peter knew he knew this.

What a ritual they had become, knowing each other.

"You don't have any idea the kind of person I am." Peter kept going, hands wandering down Wyatt's side, and the way he spoke it was like he tasted every word. Or maybe that was just the way his voice came out in breaths against Wyatt's chin.

"Mm." Wyatt shifted slightly, but he didn't expend the energy to move his arms from where they pillowed his head. He almost smirked. "You say that like you know me."

Peter rolled his eyes.

But he didn't budge. Settled, in fact, on top of Wyatt, like the world's largest cat.

" _You_ say that like it matters."

A fair counterpoint. Peter Parker was both closed-off and private, in his own little world, as well as personally invested in the wellbeing of pretty much any living thing he decided was worth his protection, short of wasps' nests and neo-fascists.

Or, as they liked to call themselves, Real Americans.

"What time is it?"

Peter didn't even move, his head on Wyatt's shoulder—"Six o'clock, on the dot, ante meridiem."

Sure enough, the sound of birdsong filtered in from outside, though the light couldn't get in through the heavily curtained and covered windows.

Wyatt sighed.

"Meet me by the truck."

Peter was already gone.

***

Wyatt missed long, hot showers.

Now it was always five minutes, lukewarm at best. Only run the tap to rinse, otherwise lather in relative silence and dryness in the early morning shadows that played across the tiled shower floor. He'd witnessed worse. But he'd witnessed better, too. He shivered as he dried himself, the outskirts of New York City much colder than his hometown in Oklahoma. Coarse weave, patting against his skin, a far-cry from the luxury of his youth.

Outside, it was quiet.

Peaceful, almost.

Dead silent.

Birds didn't like to come near the cities, anymore. Not even the outer limits.

Peter waited by the truck, a long, lean silhouette.

As he got closer, Wyatt could see Peter clearer—messy hair, sleeves rolled up, dawn light highlighting the curve of his busted nose. He was handsome, even in a garishly patterned shirt and wrinkled khakis. His eyes flashed dark in the golden haze of morning, and zeroed in on Wyatt in a way that raised the hairs on his arms.

"We're stopping in the Catskills." Wyatt jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Routine signal check."

Wordless acknowledgment, somewhere in serious eyes.

Wyatt unlocked the truck. "Privacy, too."

The corner of Peter's mouth twitched.

The drive was uneventful. The scenery a spot of beauty in the drudgery of sequestered life, in the white supremacist oligarchy that had revealed itself under the peeling layers of patriotism and capitalism.

We the People, Blessed-Be.

 _Make America Great Again_.

(Make America White Again.)

At least the trees still shrugged their red leaves through the air every fall, and the birds sang where no one ever came. Pirate radio stations still snuck onto the airwaves, and Peter's fingers tapped a frenetic rhythm on his knees that never quite lined up with the outdated pop hits that fuzzed through the speakers.

They still had to be careful, though.

It made the drive take longer than felt right, but Wyatt would rather sacrifice time than be pulled over for the lingering summer tan on his skin, or Peter's mugshot plastered in every newspaper that wasn't the Bugle.

(Irony, in that.)

"Maybe we should get one of those American flag license plates—" Peter stopped, and wrinkled his nose. " _Nah_."

Wyatt raised an eyebrow. "I'd sooner string a crucifix from the rearview mirror."

" _Oy_ _gevalt_." Peter snorted. "I'll jump out the window if you do."

They exchanged a glance, loaded with amusement and tension in equal parts as every corner turned loosened the tightness in their muscles. Further from the city, further from the patrols and the AmeriCops and the virulent patriots. For a moment, they almost laughed, and the universe with them.

"Here."

Wyatt pulled the truck to a stop on a gravel shoulder, the crunch under his tires strangely comforting. He reached across, to the glove compartment—Peter was already out, and the contents of the glove compartment rattled and rolled when he slammed the door. Air gun with BB pellets, spare clip. Not as deadly as the guns carried by the AmeriCommand but a useful weapon nonetheless. Wyatt tucked the strange, modern revolver into his waistband and pocketed the extra ammunition, grabbing the walkie-talkie from its dock on the dashboard and holstering it on his hip as he followed Peter out onto the side of the road.

Nothing of note to see, and that was good.

Just bushes, underbrush, some trees. Peter slinking in the shadows up ahead, only visible from the occasional flash of his tropical shirt, hot pink birds of paradise popping out among the dry colors of autumnal upstate New York. Gray bark, brown leaves, green moss.

"Next time, wear a zebra-print shirt. You'll really stand out, that way."

Peter ignored him.

After about twenty minutes, they passed a stack of rocks set as a landmark—a single green felt tennis ball on top of it, out in front of a trailhead bathroom the parks department barely maintained.

Close, then.

They stopped to relieve themselves and refill their water bottles from the tap on the side of the brick building.

Wyatt took the lead as the path thinned and grew more random—deer tracks instead of worn foot traffic, inconsistent as the underbrush grew thicker and the trees taller and further apart. Older woods, here. A fallen nurse log. A ragged scrap of dingy white fabric tied to a branch.

There.

"Any life?"

Peter slipped out of the trees and toward the shed, with its communication tower reaching up like a small tree itself, chrome and shiny. The solar panels on the roof glinted in the watery daylight, and Peter signaled the all-clear.

The door was so low, even Peter had to duck into the shed, but the lights came on with no issues, and the space heater buzzed to life with only a little coaxing.

Immediately, Peter set the electric kettle running in the kitchenette, and rummaged in the supply cupboard for the instant hot chocolate the resistance always kept in quick supply. After all, morale mattered even for dissidents, and with morale came packets of Swiss Miss and a stockpile of marshmallows and trail mix.

Wyatt let him fiddle with provisions, and settled at the comms setup that took up most of the remaining space in the shed.

At first, he found nothing. Mostly the usual—guerilla music stations and local airwaves. Propaganda broadcasts and alt-right talk shows. Fearmongering, buzzwords, static.

And just when he'd decided everything was in ship-shape, just as Peter set a mug of hot chocolate down in front of him, the _TAK TAK TAK_ of morse code.

Simple, and instantly recognizable.

S.O.S.

S.O.S.

S.O.S.

Wyatt looked over at Peter, who looked at the radio with steam from his mug curling around his face. Their eyes met for a moment, mirrored expressions of dark curiosity, and then Wyatt turned his attention back to the radio setup.

The next hour saw him carefully tracking signals, writing notes—while Peter paced and paced and paced, literally climbing up the walls. Holed up in a corner of the ceiling fidgeting. Dropped to the floor, feet tap-tap-tapping. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth—

"For the love of—" Wyatt spun his chair to face the room. "Would you _please_ sit still?"

Peter dropped into a perfect lotus position on the floor as if it were his body's natural state of being.

Stared.

Wyatt sighed and pressed a hand to his face.

"I'm not getting anywhere with this, anyway." Wyatt pulled the air gun out of his waistband and set it on the table with the ammo and the walkie-talkie, and his shirt quickly followed, the shack plenty warm now.

Peter was on his feet faster than Wyatt could process, on top of him in the blink of an eye. The whisper of an eyelash. Wyatt was a butterfly pinned to the velveteen padding of a desk chair and Peter was the needle. The radio hummed behind Wyatt, a loop of the happy birthday song that kept skipping and starting over in the same spot, over and over, as Peter's teeth found Wyatt's lips, and his long, cold fingers skittered all over Wyatt's exposed skin.

Wyatt shivered.

The radio crackled and the song stopped, leaving them in silence except for the harsh sound of their mingling breath, the creaking of the chair under their combined weight. Dead air, not even white noise to break it. Peter whispering something indecipherable against Wyatt's skin.

Peter led, Wyatt followed, vice versa, scarred knuckles brushing smooth skin, nose to nose and brow to brow.

"What's your type, hm?" Peter half-murmured.

They'd had this conversation before. This back-and-forth. Smooth-talking and something else. A broken record loop.

"Strong." Wyatt shifted with him, their skin sticking where they touched. His breath came ragged. "Magnetic."

"Magnetic." Peter echoed him. Nipped at his mouth. "Yes."

"Reckless."

"Glowing."

"Burning hot."

The radio tore through their tense intimacy with a robotic beep.

 _Once_.

Wyatt gasped, and nearly knocked the whole chair over trying to turn with Peter still straddling him.

 _Twice_.

Peter kept them both upright, and slunk to his feet.

 _Three times_.

They both leaned close and listened carefully.

 _Four_ (higher now).

Wyatt noted the frequency.

" _Hello, hello, hello, hello?_ "

It echoed, and with the echo came goosebumps as neither Wyatt nor Peter dared to even breathe.

" _Is anybody out there? This is the Human Torch, requesting assistance. Over._ "

Never had Wyatt moved so quickly in his life, just to flip a switch and say, "This is Wyatt Wingfoot. I read you loud and clear. Over."

There was a beat, as though the silence listened. Peter's fingers dug into Wyatt's shoulder.

" _Wyatt, buddy! Good to hear your voice again!_ "

Peter nudged Wyatt. Mouthed, " _Me too_."

Wyatt ignored him.

"What's your location? Over."

Johnny rattled off a string of numbers and Wyatt's hand flew writing them down.

They were going to need a boat.

***

The wind whipped bitterly in the cold November afternoon, the truck pulled up to the shore—Louse Point Town Beach, a good two and half hour's drive from New York City, and near abandoned. Something like a groan moved through the air off the ocean, tugging and pulling them closer to the water. Wyatt parked, and Peter was already out unhooking the motorboat from the trailer.

Connections, here and there—Jen knew a guy who knew a guy, and now Peter carried a four-seater down the beach, so far past secret identities and hidden activity that he didn't bother to even pretend it weighed more—to him—than a paperweight.

Wyatt stopped to unfold the tarp from the back of the truck, and draped it over, tying the ends down.

Peter whistled for him, carrying over the gray breeze.

Wyatt wound up, and let go, and his keychain flew true—

Peter caught it without even a glance, hands like lightning.

Wyatt did his best not to let that impress him, as he jogged down the beach.

"Ready to go?"

"Never." Wyatt stopped a foot away. "Let's go."

The water was almost black, under the dull sunlight—distant promises of foul weather to come. Wyatt shivered, and pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, tucking it in under the front of his jacket so it didn't fly away from him.

He nudged Peter aside, and Peter went—they both knew better than to let Peter control a vehicle, whether on land or sea.

The engine roared over any potential conversation they could have, and so they sat in silence as the boat cut through the choppy water.

At least, Wyatt sat.

Peter leaned terrifyingly over the railing, stuck to the deck under his own power, and yet a pang of concern flitted through Wyatt each time he teetered a little too far out.

Who knew if spiders swam.

Five minutes felt like an hour, and Peter began to pace the cramped deck as the choppy waters lifted and dipped them, slowing the boat's speed to practically a crawl, sprays of salt and mist haloing it in silver. But slowly, the spit of sand that marked Cartwright and the larger Gardiners Island shone like chalk against steel, and they drew closer and closer with the whine of the motor, past the long, dwindling point, GPS leading the way.

One mile down, two more, up the eastern shore, northward.

Goosebumps rose under the layers protecting Wyatt's skin from the cool air.

Slowly, a shape composed itself in the mist, somewhere on the main island. The shore scraped the prow of their boat, thin waves lapping up and disappearing back into the bay like ice forming and receding—it wasn't that cold, to form ice, but something in the shimmer and shiver made Wyatt feel colder. The shape did not resolve, simply a blue shadow inward.

Peter vaulted to terra firma, hands flying up to the back of his head almost the moment his feet met the ground, as if he had an itch he couldn't shake—twitchy, like always.

"Keep an eye out." Wyatt killed the engine. Checked his waistband. Followed.

Peter shook his head like he had something stuck in his hair.

"Spidey sense?" Wyatt let his hand rest on the curve of the BB gun in his waistband.

Left.

Right.

Peter's tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he stared off at some unseen thing over the water. Slowly said, "No…" Hesitated. He caught Wyatt's eye and nodded toward the structure drawing them further from the shore. "There are no buildings…?" Neither a question nor a statement.

Here, in this section of the island, away from the manor on the north side, there were no buildings. Here, in the southeast curve, approaching the Great Pond (as it was so creatively labeled on the private maps the Black Cat had filed away in her stash of miscellanea.)

And yet, there… Something.

In the middle of the large pond…

"What _is_ that?"

It formed out of the mist, like something from a mid-century science fiction novel, wreathed in smoke. A cube, a house, a ship, a series of plinths, a monolith of stone-steel-chalk-plastic-glass—the kind of thing Wyatt had generally only seen within the confines of the Baxter Building, long before the coup of fascism and the death of the Fantastic Four.

"Negative Zone bleed?" He moved closer to the edge of the lake, slowly, carefully. Not too close.

Peter hung back.

The hypercube unfolded, like one unfolds a paper airplane, only to refold it again later, and from what briefly appeared to be a door, a figure appeared—he glowed orange and golden, licks of blue and white, and took a step forward. Each step followed, slow and controlled, and Wyatt held his breath at the flames flickering off the black water of the pond as the Human Torch approached.

Peter stood stock-still a few feet away.

Equidistant between them both, Johnny stopped. He looked first at Peter, then at Wyatt, his head tilted slightly and expression unreadable beneath the veil of fire that hid his face. He raised his arms, reaching for them both, and then—

A sharp intake caught Wyatt's attention, as Peter stiffened—the latter clapped a hand to the back of his thigh, and pulled out the small dart that had lodged itself there. Their eyes met, and Peter looked to the shore, dart clenched in his white-knuckled fist. His eyes widened, and Wyatt caught only the mouthed "Duck" before Peter had already spun, flinging his arm out to throw the dart right back at a man Wyatt hadn't even heard approach—

Wyatt ducked and a ballistic tranq whizzed over his head as the hypercube hologram blipped out of existence.

All a trap.

He pulled out his BB gun and got one shot off, hitting an armored goon in the faceplate the same moment Peter intercepted an AmeriCop's TASER line with his bare hand, the electricity arcing up his arm and pushing his expression into a teeth-clenching grimace.

"Wingfoot!"

Wyatt ran.

Up around the water, the sounds of struggle at his back, shore to the left and shore to the right.

There were trees, and he took to them—vaulting up the nearest one with all the expertise of a man who'd had an Olympian's shoes to fill and an obsession with personal fitness. He took off his scarf and tangled it in the branches before shimmying down the other side of the tree and ducking between trunks and undergrowth. He left his coat in the dirt and stopped long enough to turn, pull the walkie talkie from its holster at his belt, and throw.

It flew as true as his aim and he didn't stop to see where it landed before running.

He knew there was a private dock on the northwest half of the island but he also knew there was no way the Americommand wouldn't have planned for that, so he did the only thing no one would predict—

He waded into the November-cold waters of Gardiners Bay, body protesting against the biting waves, and started swimming.

***

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER

***

It would have been a lie to say Wyatt didn't feel slightly out of place surrounded by something like five different people each dressed in their own version of the Captain America uniform, but at the same time—having the captured crew back in order: Sam Wilson, Luke Cage, and of course Peter Parker among other members of the inner circle—took some of the edge off.

That didn't keep Wyatt from being tense.

The revelation that Doctor Wentworth herself seemed to be more involved in things than they'd realized.

A reminder of the "systems failure."

"I never bought that." Wyatt didn't look at Peter but he could see him in his peripheral vision, the way he hovered at the edge of Wyatt's senses, refusing to sit and lingering behind Wyatt not quite close enough to feel.

The next minute went by fast—Hellcat into Tigra, Murdock into Daredevil, Peter shoving in front of Wyatt as if he could prevent whatever this was from spreading past the table.

"The _Entropy Wave_. It has begun to rewrite even this altered reality." One of the Captains.

Chaos. Hectic talk of revolution, civil war, too much testosterone and desperation—

Five more minutes and they had a new leader.

Another five, they had the beginnings of a plan, and Peter's fingers dug into Wyatt's shoulder as the circle began to formulate something actionable, beyond just ideas. Disguises, distractions, the risk of injury or death irrelevant in the face of a larger problem. A larger need.

They had to take the Americommand down from within.

***

12 HOURS LATER

***

The morning light saw Wyatt and Peter sitting in wait next to the highway.

Wolverine and Tigra hunkered down on the other side of the road, hidden as well as they could be.

There, down the highway—dust signaling the arrival of their quarry.

Wyatt signaled.

Beside him, Peter—mask on, now—shot a line of webbing. Wolverine caught it, and Tigra bolstered herself behind him. The truck came closer, and Wyatt held his breath as he trained his sights where he predicted he would need to.

Closer…

Closer still…

Peter pulled, and Tigra and Wolverine countered, and the line snapped taut just as the cargo truck came into range at full speed—Their partners no longer visible on the other side of the truck as it screeched to a stop, threatening to crumple.

The engine cut.

"—the fuck was that?" The driver's door swung open and before the man's foot even hit the ground Wyatt pulled the trigger. (Aiming for the knee, non-lethal.)

The driver fell to the road with a curse, shouting for his partner—too late for him, Daredevil already at his neck with a garrote like a ghost from the shadows.

Out from the ditches, their allies streamed forth—a pack of wolves, and the Americommand employees their prey; quickly pacified, stripped of their uniforms, and dumped on the side of the road, while Beast and Peter and anyone else with the necessary brawn began to empty out the back of the truck, scattering cargo on the asphalt.

Wyatt and Misty Knight kept watch in the back, and Fury in the front.

Five minutes.

"Heads up!" Wyatt turned just in time to see the uniform before it hit him in the face.

He pulled the fabric off of his head and leveled Spider-Man with an unamused glare.

Peter saluted him, and somersaulted backwards into the cargo hold of the truck.

"Let's get going, people!" Misty holstered her gun and waved Electro and his gang of temporary allies over.

Wyatt changed next to the opened door at the cabin of the truck, modesty an uncalled-for luxury in these times. He left his pants on the side of the road and climbed into the driver's seat.

Gyrich joined him no more than a second later, and Wyatt turned the keys in the ignition.

***

All was silent, Dream Team departed and Wyatt and Gyrich left alone to guard the passageway.

Wyatt didn't like Gyrich, but their goal was not a matter of like-and-dislike. As long as he could pull a trigger, that was the only thing that mattered. Wyatt shifted, scuffing the toe of his boot against his ankle. The borrowed uniform didn't quite fit his frame, a little tight in places, too-short sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the collar unbuttoned because it wouldn't close around his broad shoulders. It itched something fierce, too.

Gyrich sighed, rolling his neck and a grumble—"Better get on with it before I fall asleep."

Wyatt rolled his eyes, half-ready to retort that Gyrich would say the same thing in the middle of an action flick but before he could open his mouth, a klaxon cut through the silence.

Red flashing lights, the alarm screaming, and Wyatt on high alert, Gyrich tense beside him.

Steps, and Wyatt stiffened.

"You there, soldier—!"

He whirled, gun trained on Bright Star, wavering to Broad-Stripe, unsure who to focus on, so dizzied by the flashing and the noise.

"Identify yourselves!"

Gyrich took a shot—missed—"Eat my shoe!"

Wyatt cursed, ducking forward, but too late—one super powered blow to the temple and he stumbled back, vision gone to grainy fireworks.

He lost consciousness the split second before he hit the floor.

***

Wyatt slowly regained consciousness to the pervasive aura of… quiet.

His head throbbed, and his shoulder too, for reasons he couldn't quite figure out—only the vague memory of falling on his side. But it wasn't broken, and as he sat, the sound of boots echoed down the corridor.

"Gyrich! Wingfoot! What happened?!"

Wyatt explained, as Gyrich stirred beside him, and one of the Captains stooped to see that he was okay while the Civil War Captain and the tall one—tall like Wyatt—ran past.

"Fall back." Captain America nodded down the hall. "We'll take it from here."

All Wyatt could say was, "Hurry!" He felt almost breathless. "They may have already caught up to—"

"At ease, Wingfoot." Cap squeezed his shoulder, at once stern and gentle, and stood. "We'll handle it from here."

"…Yes, sir." Wyatt let himself breathe. "Good luck."

"No such thing as luck." Captain America stood with a smile, and followed where his compatriots had already gone, down Omega Corridor and into the shadows of the facility.

As he left, Gyrich mumbled, "Think I get it, now."

Wyatt frowned, shooting him a questioning look as he reached up to prod the half-dried blood on his own face. Sticky and cold to the touch, deep red.

Gyrich smirked, and it was an unsettling but somehow fitting expression for his face, behind the sunglasses. He nodded down the hall, sitting up against one of the sleek walls and stretching his feet out. "He tells you to do something, and you can't say no, can you?"

Wyatt shook his head, but a smile quirked the corner of his mouth. "Guess not."

He sighed, and mirrored Gyrich, letting the back of his head rest against the cool wall.

They sat in silence, maybe thirty seconds, max, before Gyrich in all his personability and general unpleasant-to-be-around-ness croaked, "So, now Spider-Guy's back I take it you're out of the pool?"

A pang went through the cut on Wyatt's face as he frowned, knitting his brows together.

"Beg pardon?"

"You know—" Gyrich raised his eyebrows. "Now that Casa Wingfoot is ocupado, the girls were discussing—well, they don't have a chance anymore." He paused. "Well, Tigra, maybe, knowing your history with the Shulk..."

Wyatt stared at him.

"You get my drift, compadre?"

Wyatt rolled his eyes and said, "Don't speak Spanish at me, Mr. Gyrich."

"If you say so, _Mr. Wingfoot_." Just a _little_ mocking. "Just checking in."

"I don't need you to check in on my dating life." Wyatt stood, slinging his dropped gun around his good shoulder as he added, "And my history with Jennifer is none of your business."

So-saying, he turned his back to Gyrich and headed for the other end of the corridor—the opposite direction from Cap, away from the scuffed portal and toward the main part of the building where he knew the others waited.

Gyrich laughed, and Wyatt ignored him, pressing the back of his wrist to the cut on his face.

***

What seemed like they had navigated in five seconds took at least five minutes to re-navigate, maybe because all the adrenaline had seeped from their bodies, maybe from concussion, maybe from the stars lingering at the edge of Wyatt's vision. But his head stopped bleeding, even as his lip had split at some point, sharp and painful.

They finally found their way toward the main room, a gathering of superheroes all milling together amongst the bodies of fallen AmeriCops and jingoistic cronies alike—

And just as they made to enter the room, something shifted in the air.

At first, almost like electricity… but softer. The shimmering featherlight touch of goosebumps, as paleness suffused everything such that for just a moment, Wyatt thought he had gone blind. But then, no, it was almost like looking through a film negative, squinting to see the picture against the sunlight above, but instead of golden-amber tones, everything was blue, with whispers of turquoise and quicksilver and the white of an exceptionally clear winter day.

Words—not his own, the voice of many, somehow, but stemming from one—swam together.

 _All the myriad bodies_ … they said. _Matter. Energy. Drawn in and cast off_.

It clarified as something… almost familiar. A man's voice, a little Atlantic, a little clipped.

 _"There are never only two bodies,"_ Reed Richards had told him once, a long time ago, when he and Johnny had been in the same physics class. _"All the myriad bodies swirl together, drawing in matter and casting off energy, beyond the scope of anything you or I will ever experience."_

 _"Sure,"_ Johnny had said. Leaning back against his pillows, one leg kicked up. _"Just like the circuit."_

Reed had laughed, and conceded that maybe Johnny had a point.

Cars round and round the circuit, each dependent on the other, each influencing the other, ripples of effects so that no two bodies could solely affect each other, but that every aspect from the smallest piece of gravel to the brightest signal light mattered as much as anything else. Each instance of influence and pull, life and death and birth and conversation.

And Wyatt had said, quietly, _"As if the stars themselves are alive and dancing."_

And Reed had smiled.

And then Johnny had thrown a sock at Wyatt, complaining about how much less cool that was than NASCAR, and everything had devolved into laughter and gold and—

The brightness faded to a gentle softness and Wyatt caught his breath, Gyrich forgotten, as the air sparkled to life.

Golden flicker—then beams—jets, dancing stars, flying forth from an untraceable path, meeting his heart—

Like the flames of a hearth, of sparklers, of a candle quietly illuminating its own little sphere of existence and adding itself to the myriad bodies of the universe. Wyatt stood there, as it flowed through his chest in a line of shivering starlight.

At the end of its orbit, its safety line, a mirage of a figure flickering in and out of view like an energetic shadow playing at hide and seek.

"Johnny…"

The figure enveloped him, warm hands on his face, a softness cauterizing the cuts on his forehead—his lips—and then…

 _Goodbye_.

The whisper of a campfire, the whiff of woodsmoke and alpine air mixed with tannic perfume and the smell of rain.

The light went out all at once, like a candle extinguished, and Wyatt let out his breath—something having been released, deep in his aching chest.

Sunlight peeked through the vents, and cheering carried through the halls—the crowd in the entrance raising their arms, laughing, shaking hands and patting backs and even dancing, Gyrich already among them.

Wyatt reached up to touch his lashes, slightly damp. His forehead, the wound scabbed over and the blood burnt away. His lip, lingering warmth.

He looked up, and two broad white eyes stared at him from where Peter stood, still masked.

Peter reached up, slowly drawing the mask away from his face. His dark hair stuck up wild, and his dark gaze pinned Wyatt to the spot.

Silently—or at least, quieter than Wyatt could hear from where he stood—Peter mouthed, "Goodbye."

And in the blink of an eye, he was gone, strung out on a web.

Outside, Wyatt could hear birdsong.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
